


jump into the water (put the fire out)

by Jade_Sabre



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, to be updated as fics needing a home arrive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:24:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Sabre/pseuds/Jade_Sabre
Summary: A place to put any Widojest fics I write that aren't quite long enough to have their own home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fic the first: so they say
> 
> tumblr prompt: belldandy-goddessofthepresent said: Widojest prompt (if you want) helplessly pining Caleb trying not to imagine giving Jester smooches
> 
> spoilers up to episode 51ish
> 
> (originally posted [here](http://jadesabre301.tumblr.com/post/182795667604/widojest-prompt-if-you-want-helplessly-pining).)

Once upon a time, Jester kissed him.  
  
It was about as true a kiss as the time Fjord put both hands to her face and gave her air, and the memory of that made his heart sink as much as the memory of _her_ hands on _his_ face made his heart—stutter and stumble and trip over too many feelings and not enough  
  
_never enough_  
  
scumidiotdirtwastedworthlesswretched _not good_  
  
(and the memory of her voice swoops in, hammering the nails into his coffin, _I think you are a good person_.)  
  
Anyway, the point was one time her mouth was on his and he was too busy pretending to be unconscious to do anything about it.  Not that he would have done anything about it—not that he would dare, even now, so many weeks later, to ever _do_ anything about it—but it happened and it haunted him and he should be able to let it go, chalk it up to a good laugh for everyone else.  
  
But one time she kissed him, even if she didn’t realize it, and the problem with true love’s ( _ha_ , and the laugh in his head is a little hysterical) kiss was that it—woke things better left sleeping, resurrected that which shouldn’t be alive.  
  
He wants her.

He only admits it because he is extraordinarily drunk and he is only extraordinarily drunk because misery loves company and after so many days underground they are all a little off their heads, so when Nott starts passing around the endless flask no one bothers to stop it.  The result is that Fjord has actually passed out and a sloppily drunk Beau is leaning on an entirely sober Jester and pointing out all the places the latter hasn’t covered with tiny dicks yet.  Caduceus is sipping tea in the back corner of the hut, which is silly because huts don’t have corners, well, huts have corners but hemispheres don’t; but the way he’s smiling at them all over his teacup is at once amiable and judging and it’s the sort of look a person can only issue from a corner or a high horse, and they left the horses in Felderwin so corner it is.  Yasha is standing on the opposite end, her swordtip grinding into the stone as she leans on it in an attempt to keep an unnecessary watch.  Nott is busy scritching Nugget and letting his long, rough tongue bathe her face, and Caleb is sitting beside them, stroking Frumpkin’s head and not really bothering to stop himself from swaying this way and that, though his gaze never wavers.  
  
Which is unfortunate, because eventually Jester is going to look over and notice him watching, and she’s entirely too sober and also drawing tiny dicks all over the man she is presumably still sweet on, complicated though it may be, and if she’s thinking about _him_ then she’s definitely not thinking about what Caleb’s thinking about, which Caleb shouldn’t be thinking either for a whole host of reasons, most of which are centered around the fact that he is a liar and a thief and a murderer and wanted by the most powerful people in the Empire and thus a walking death sentence for anyone who knows him.  Some of which are centered around the fact that somewhere a Dunamancy-sensitive wizard carries a piece of his heart with her, and he can’t rest until he sees her again and gets it back.  A few of which—and it should be more of them, and that’s alarming, or would be if he wasn’t drunk—have to do with how he has _things to do_ and could never be what she deserves (of course, he intrinsically, at the core of him, can never be what she deserves, and ach, to hell with this).  
  
He is not, however, thinking about any of those things, at least not any more than he usually is.  
  
He is, however, thinking about her lips.  
  
He watches them shape words, watches her purse them as she focuses on drawing yet another tiny dick, this time on the inside of Fjord’s elbow, hm, risky move.  Watches the tip of her tongue slowly poke out, slowly run along her top lip as she works, and even her _tongue_ is blue, of course it is.  And if he were a normal man— _ha_ —he’d be entertained by this for hours, and if he got bored with it, he’d drop his gaze; but he doesn’t just _want_ her, and instead his gaze travels up, to the scattering of freckles that will be his undoing some day, some day when he has to count them all, placing his finger against each one, and his lips afterwards, because why not.  And above that are her eyes, violet and not nearly so creepy as more full-blooded tieflings—Molly’s had been too like too many of his nightmares for comfort—now narrowed in concentration, and he’d been on the receiving end of that piercing probing stare and that’d probably be his undoing too, unless it was her pleading stare or her wicked grin or her—  
  
Who has the flask?  He needs to join Fjord in dreamland.  Staying awake is too dangerous.  
  
Ah, Beau has the flask.  Also dangerous.  Also, looking at Beau doesn’t really count as looking away from Jester—she has a tail, and what would she do with that tail?  She would probably poke him with it.  She already uses it to tap him on the opposite shoulder and he falls for it at least once a day and she still giggles every time and he would fall for it every time if it would keep her laughter ringing in his ears.  
  
She sits back on her heels with a grin of triumph—he’d kiss that too, kiss her smiles and her frowns, oh hells, what is he, a poet?  they all know _that’s_ not true—that quickly turns to a grimace (he’d still kiss it, though, point still stands) as Fjord grunts in his sleep and throws his arm over his face.  
  
“Aw _man_ ,” Beau slurs, “he’s gonna smear all the paint.”  
  
“Maybe,” Jester says, “maybe it’ll smear into just one _giant dick_.”  
  
Caleb can’t help it; he snorts, and immediately both women are looking at him and he hopes to whatever merciful god might be listening (none of them are ever listening to him) that he hasn’t drooled, that his guilt isn’t written all over his face, that even now they can’t tell that he’s coming completely undone by the answering laughter on Jester’s face.  If he were a different man—  
  
if he were a different man, he’d have swept her into his arms a long time ago, told her it’s all right to cry, it’s all right to laugh, it’s all right to feel whatever she wants to feel and she will always be safe, feeling whatever she wants within his arms.  
  
(Would Bren have loved her half so well?)  
  
(Not that _he_ loves her, of course.  Only that he wants to kiss her, wants her to kiss him again so he can do it properly this time—  
  
if by “properly” he means “not at all,” because how dare he, how _dare_ —)  
  
“Caleb,” she says, and this name is somehow his name in a way nothing has belonged to him in over a decade, this name that became _his_ name the moment it left her lips in Trostenwald, “would you like a turn?”  
  
“Ah,” he says, swaying a bit to the other side if only to see her smile as he does so, “I’m not very good.”  
  
“Oh come on man,” Beau says, throwing up her hand before realizing she was using that arm to lean on Jester—but even totally drunk the woman has a cat’s grace as she regains her balance and starts leaning on the other arm, “you draw all those runes and shit.  Get over here.”  
  
“I don’t…know,” he says slowly, and he’s not lying when he says, “I do not think I can…stand?”  
  
“Oh,” Jester says cheerfully, and suddenly she’s on her feet and Beau is falling over, _hey!_   “I’ll help you!”  
  
This is a terrible idea and he opens his mouth to tell her so but she’s far faster than his drunk mind can follow and before half a breath is out of his mouth she’s in front of him, a hand under each armpit, hauling him to his feet with that surprising strength of hers.  He’s swaying almost immediately and she braces him and he looks down at her and—  
  
she’s _right there_.  Right there.  More importantly, so are her lips, and he could keep swaying, could just fall forward, and it’d be an accident, it’d be  
  
madness and a mistake  
  
_never good (enough)_  
  
but oh his whole body is on fire and he aches in a way he hasn’t in so _long_ and he must be comfortable, must be fed and clean and safe when he sleeps, at least a little, to be even remotely entertaining the thought—  
  
but he’d want to kiss her if he had nothing left to him, not even a name, and he realizes this even as he knows with unfailing sober certainty that it can _never happen_  
  
—“Caleb,” she is saying, and his heart breaks, watching her say his name, watching as her lips that are so close and so impossibly far close about the final _b_ and he could kiss her, he could kiss her right now, say he was drunk, say in the morning that he didn’t remember—must not’ve been—  
  
he loves her too much to lie to her about it.  
  
“Jes…ter,” he says in response, dragging out the _r_ the way she drags out the _a_ in his name, and she smiles up at him, soft and happy and he wants to tell her _no, please don’t_.  
  
“Wow,” she says, “you are pretty drunk.  I was going to ask you to dance but I think you are too drunk even for that.”  
  
He’s staring at her lips and not really paying much attention to what she’s saying because he has so little left to him at this point he can’t even hope she won’t notice, let alone figure it out.  “I am…very drunk,” he says, “and you are…”  
  
_perfect_  
  
“…blue.”  
  
She giggles, looks up at him through her lashes, and surely she can’t be so oblivious as to not know—but surely she would only—she is the coquette always, of course, of course she would only flirt if she felt safe.  If she felt…anything else…she’d be as stumbling an idiot as he is.  But beautifully so.  “You’ve said that before,” she says in suggestive tones, and he nearly throws all his former logic away and sweeps her into his arms and lets her know what she’s suggesting.  
  
As it is, his hands are gripping her arms before he quite knows how they got there, holding onto her as she holds him up, and her smile turns a bit wistful and his breath catches and he has to get away from those lips, _far away_ , but the only way to go is forward, so he leans until he drops his forehead on her shoulder and can’t see anything, can only press his forehead into her as hard as he dares and breathe the scent of her—not so great, after days and days underground, but he’s definitely smelled worse and something about her is still _the best_ —until it chases everything else from his mind.  
  
“Oh Caleb,” she says, and her voice is right in his ear and he can’t help trembling, either, “you need to go to sleep.”  
  
“True,” he says into her cloak, “blue,” and then she is lowering him back to the ground, only this time he goes horizontal, somehow, and she’s careful to make sure Nott’s at his feet and Nugget is—well, not near his face, which is now pressed against stone and not her cloak, and it’s still better than he deserves.  
  
She tucks his coat around him, makes sure his socks are pulled up, pats him on the head, and he thinks he feels her run her fingers through his hair, lightly, just enough to catch a few locks between her fingers and then let them fall, but he’s squeezing his eyes shut and hoping to be asleep before anything else happens—  
  
“Good night, Caleb,” she says, and then she presses those perfect impossible lips of hers against his cheek; and then she is gone, and he is alone.  
  
As he should be.  As he deserves.  As he—  
  
she _kissed_ him, and he remembers everything, has the feel of her cool skin against his memorized before he slips between the haze of drunken wakefulness and the confusion of drunken dreams, dancing around flames and drowning alike and she’s at the center of it all and he reaches for her and she slips through his fingers—  
  
there’s no happily ever after to be had; but once upon a time, she kissed him, and it will haunt him until the end.

 


	2. identify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted on tumblr [here](http://jadesabre301.tumblr.com/post/183689559424/widogasm-tambuli-replied-to-your-post-you)
> 
> original notes as follows:  
> OH NO NOW I FEEL OBLIGATED TO GENERATE CONTENT
> 
> don’t tell the husband i should be in bed
> 
> okay phew found a prompt here we go
> 
> au where they just, you know, ride their moorbounders to [Gordranas] instead of what acTUALLY HAPPENED, GUYS (so, spoilers through episode 56?)
> 
> why did i change tenses halfway through the thing guys why do i ALWAYS DO THIS okay fixed it here we go

He is casting Identify.  
  
He is ritually casting Identify, so in addition to hand gestures he also has his spell book, and runes to trace, and all the little extras that he has to take the time to spell out rather than taking the shortcuts of an instantaneous cast—rather than holding all those extra magical bits in his head, not leaving room for better magical bits.  But of course he still needs to concentrate, to make sure he is casting the spell correctly and not accidentally drawing, say, dicks in the dirt instead.  
  
Specifically, he is ritually casting Identify on a piece of fauna that Jester brought him.  He is ritually casting Identify because Jester asked him to, because she caught Yarnball munching on the stuff and is concerned it might be poisonous for moorbounders.  
  
He could tell her that’s not how the spell works, exactly.  He tries that, actually, but she brushes it away, gives him an encouraging smile that makes his face too hot, tells him she’s _sure_ he’ll figure it out, and then sits down right behind him to lean over his shoulder as he works.  Which should have been fine, except that out of the corner of his eye he notices her tail, sneaking around him, the tip of it carefully drawing a dick in the dirt right next to the rough outlines of his runes.  
  
He pauses to watch her, fascinated with her dexterity, and suddenly he is aware of her at his back, not actually leaning against him but close enough for him to close the gap with barely a thought, if he so chose, if he wanted to, if he _wants_ to; the carefully calm rhythm of her warm breath in his ear, too casual, making the hairs on his neck stand on end and his stomach tight; the repressed giggle as she finishes the first dick and starts on the next.  
  
His finger is mimicking her motions in the dirt, which will ruin the spell.  He can’t shake his head to clear it, lest he give himself away and she stops.  He doesn’t want her to stop.  He wants—  
  
to cast Identify.  Ritually.  
  
He is, after all, a caster of spells.  A wizard, even, of some training and no small amount of talent.  He is certainly not coming undone because of a trickster cleric breathing down his neck and mucking up his spells.  He resumes his ritual.  
  
Her tail pauses, just on the edge of his vision; he can feel her watching him work.  He mutters a few words, feels her tilt her head as she tries to make sense of them; he checks the instructions in his spell book, and her finger follows along just behind him.  He traces a few more runes in the dirt.  
  
Her tail drifts across them, just above the ground, pauses over a particular one, and in his ear she says, “That one _definitely_ looks like a dick.”  
  
Matching her voice, in the barest whisper, he answers, “Do you want me to cast the spell or not?”  
  
“Mm,” she says, and a thousand things he _wants_ flit through his unceasing mind before he forces them all aside, his fingers curling against the dirt, and she says, “I suppose so.  I’m really concerned about Yarnball, you know.”  
  
“Then,” he says, _putting them all aside_ , “I really need to concentrate.”  
  
“Of course!” she says brightly, and then she is gone in a rustle of cloth and leather and ribbons and she takes the want with her and leaves in its place a terrible lonely abyss, the air cold at his back; but it is no place he hasn’t been before; and in any case, he is casting a spell, and that is—will have to be—enough.


	3. a fond embrace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No prompt, other than Liam O'Brien's face. A quick take on a little moment in episode 66. (Spoilers for episode 66.)

She hugs Caduceus.  
  
She hugs Caduceus, and Caleb smiles.  
  
He has meant to cheer her, after all, and the others joined the attempt without any encouragement, because of course they all l—care for her, see how tired she is, wish to offer encouragement.  And they’re all correct, of course, and now she’s beaming in the glow of the dancing lights, little moons reflecting the light of her smile.  
  
He is glad.  
  
She hugged Caduceus, and he is _glad_ , is glad the firbolg returned the gift, is glad somebody else put their arms around her, is glad that somebody else spoke up so that he could stop speaking, is glad she is smiling at somebody else, is—  
  
and after all this time he should know, he _does_ know, he tells himself again and again that he should not can not _does_ not—  
  
is longing to take her in his arms, to brush the hair off her forehead, to kiss her temple and whisper _you did well, you did so well and you are so tired and I am so proud of you, rest now, rest, dear one, rest and I will hold you while you sleep_.  
  
And who is he and how _dare_ he and he knows what he is, and yet and yet and _yet_.  
  
She hugged Caduceus, and Caleb aches with emptiness.  
  


* * *

  
_Snap pea_.  
  
What a strange thing to say.  What a silly observation.  Sugar pea makes _way_ more sense.  She is very sweet, after all, and it sounds much cuter than _snap pea_.  
  
But there’s almost something to it, _snap pea_ , something that can’t be bent, only broken, something crisp and satisfying about it, and in all honesty she probably looked more like a snap pea than a sugar pea and that was why he said it.  He’s always so precise.  
  
_Snap pea_.  
  
She’s exhausted, face-first in the bed that the others insisted she take, her own breath hot against her cheeks, rocs and caves and fireballs and darkness and _how_ and _why_ and she’s thinking about _snap pea_.  Fjord’s hand, closing around hers to take her to safe—the tree— _snap pea_.  
  
She turns her head to free her nose and half-opens one eye and he’s there, tracing a giant circle on the floor.  Something to do with Frumpkin, probably.  Does Frumpkin like peas?  
  
Does—he?  
  
He thinks she doesn’t notice his smiles (and she closes her eyes and breathes, deeply, and the mattress doesn’t smell like piss and that’s nice).  He thinks she doesn’t notice how he _smiles_ at her without saying anything, without trying to catch her attention, just—just a smile, just glad to—see her, or something, she doesn’t _know_ and she’s happy when other people are smiling so it’s fine that he smiles except then—and this he _really_ thinks she doesn’t see (eagle’s wings and flames and rough bark and vines and the clouds falling away from her but wait, _she’s_ the one falling)—he’s not smiling, he’s not smiling at all, he looks so…  
  
so…  
  
she’s read books (of demon princes and their castles and what’s waiting for Yasha below, wings unfurled, the shadow of a bird blotting out the sun) about people who never (people in love) (if you love someone do you take them to safety or thrust them in harm’s way to see if they’ll grow?) say their feelings, too shy or too… _tired_ …happy endings they speak up, sad ones they go to their death (every bone in her body between talons and tree) never…and he’s not one for talking, usually, for saying, but…surely not.  
  
And if he doesn’t say anything it’s not like she can say…what?  
  
(Lights whirling by, waltzing, hands linked, rough wool and too much drink and there’s another, that’s why, she can never be what she isn’t and what he wants is—impossible—if he never _says_ —)  
  
does _she_ even like peas?—yes, yes she does, she’s been too hungry, now, known hunger, known thirst, she’s hungry _now_ but so tired too tired too—  
  
clouds-tree-earth moving too fast, wind tearing through her hair, whistling past her ears, skirt flapping, reaching and hoping and wishing and _goodbye_ , just in case, a shower of feathers and promises, promises; but in her dream she’s always falling, and she doesn't mind it, really.  Better to be falling than to land.   
  
Always falling is practically flying; she spreads her arms, and hugs the sky.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilers for the treasure trove of episode 77. [originally posted on tumblr](https://jadesabre301.tumblr.com/post/187655769854/headcannon-while-shopping-for-boring-stuff-every) in response to @mccostep's 100% accurate headcanon.

It’s not intentional, he tells himself.  
  
It’s clearly accidental.  Running his fingers through gold dust, bumping into hers, tangling and twisting and tripping over them.  Handing over a bag of gold, his hand taking it right where hers is leaving it—the best place to hold it from, of course.  So many sheaves of paper— _so many_ —of course she has to hand them to him, of course it's—an accident when their hands linger.  
  
He should not enjoy it.  Especially not after this morning, especially not after looking into the eyes of all that he was and watching it die—he should not be able to forget so quickly.  
  
(He never forgets.  What is worse is that he _does_ remember, and smiles at her anyway.)  
  
He’ll apologize later.  He’ll tell her—later.  And for now he’ll smile at her, as if he hasn’t a thing to hide; and for the briefest moment, he’s telling the truth.

* * *

Oh.  _Oh_.  
  
It’s been _such_ a morning and _so much_ has happened and earlier she almost made him _cry_ and now—now his eyes alight on a sackful of gold dust, his hand reaching in and letting it drift down from his fingers, confirming its purity.  She can’t _help_ it, it sparkles _so_ prettily, and she dives her hand in right before he does the same again and somewhere in the bag their hands meet and their fingers brush and she almost tries to pull away and then she doesn’t and he—doesn’t either, and their hands emerge drenched in gold and—and—  
  
he _smiles_ _  
  
he_ is smiling so _much_ , as she hands him her gold dust, as his hand brushes over hers to take it, and when she’d held his hands earlier it had been all—scars and sadness and clutching them, wanting him to _know_ (wanting him to ask in return, wanting to _talk_ to him, wanting—wanting—).  And now it’s scars and stomach in her throat and the quirk of smile at the corner of his lips and— _lips_?  
  
And a huge muddled mess of tangled hands and arms and bumping into each other as she hands over the paper (and hands it over, and hands it over, ‘cause it’s a _lot_ ) and he thanks her and she’s—speechless, can only give him a thumbs up and something like a smile that’s caught in her throat along with her hammering heart and her twisting stomach and oh, _oh_ , maybe this is why they haven’t been talking because this is a lot, this is too—  
  
He looks at her, fond and wistful and thoughtful and—hesitant, and she waits, still silent, still full, and—later.  He’ll tell her later.  
  
Which is good, because she can’t talk at all right now and she has a feeling she would want to—say, _something_.  Listen, of course, but _say_ , and maybe—maybe their fingers will, you know, brush again.  And maybe— _maybe_ —  
  
_later_  
  
—they won’t let go.


	5. a restless sort of wondering: alternative ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an alternate ending for [a restless sort of wondering](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110547) that I wrote ages ago and never quite finished, so I'm hiding it over here instead. My apologies that I couldn't finish up those last three lines of dialogue, but I figure hey, the people like kissing, I'll give 'em a little kissing. Spoilers through episode 65. Hope you enjoy. :-)

_coming off the suggestion that Caleb would happily give her a ride as a giant eagle_

* * *

  
..."Maybe," he said, and then he drew a breath and started again. "Maybe, you know, now that we can go back to Nicodranas and come back whenever we like—perhaps when we go check on your mother—"

She gasped. "Oh! Oh, do you think we could talk her into going for a ride too?" She pressed her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, I think she would like it so much! And—and the views are much nicer there anyway, and—oh, yes. Yes. Please," she said, to be polite.

She felt him laugh against her side and her heart went sideways in her chest and must have run into one of her lungs or something because she couldn't quite breathe right, either. "All right," he said. "Nicodranas it is."

"It's a date!" she said, half-conscious of what she was saying, fully conscious the moment the words reached his ears and he went absolutely still, and to cover her—mistake?—she immediately started babbling. "Do we need a harness or something? Or maybe a leash, so that if I fall off—"

"I will catch you," he said, gently and firmly, almost petulant, and she didn't dare look at him. "And if I fail, I will drop Polymorph and cast Featherfall on us both."

She felt an absurd desire to throw her arms around him and—something. She settled for turning her head and grinning up at him, but of course he was still leaning down towards her and now their faces were entirely too close and she couldn't scoot away without being obvious and he looked so _serious_ and that was silly, they were just talking about going for a ride, that was all, she could practically count the hairs on his impeccable chin from this close and his jaw was tight again and she could watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and avoided looking at her and she could kiss his cheek from here if she wanted to and she suddenly decided she did want to and so she—did.

Her lips touched his skin and so did the tip of her nose for the briefest of moments before he turned his head towards her, just enough to break contact, just enough for _his_ lips to be—near, strangely near, oddly near, and her gaze dropped to them as they parted to take a breath or say something and—

"Jester," he said, and she thought he meant to be gentle but he choked on her name as her tail curled along one of his crossed legs—and when had it gotten there? silly thing—and her own breath caught in her throat, waiting, heart hammering like they were back in the cave and the roc was circling but she wasn't in any danger, this was _Caleb_ , just Caleb clearing his throat and saying, "I, ah—"

She kissed him.

The force of it surprised them both, sent him falling backwards, scrambling for balance, and his hands landed on Nott for a split-second, long enough to interrupt her snoring. They froze, Jester's lips awkwardly on Caleb's half-open mouth, both their eyes wide and his a blur in front of her, her hands grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him back to her.

"Jester?" Nott mumbled.

"It's fine, I just tripped!" she said, except her lips were still against Caleb and so it came out muffled and she felt his chest shake with panicked laughter, felt his breath against her face, and— _oh_ —  
  
Nott resumed snoring, and Jester slowly exhaled, also into Caleb's face, as he sat up and carefully pulled his head back, leaving her half in his lap and gripping his shirt and staring up at him and hoping he would explain what was happening. He was very smart, so surely he could explain what had possessed her—what was _still_ possessing her—why her hands were twisting his very nice shirt and she felt so very anxious to be—to do— _something_.

He tried. She watched him try, watched him open his mouth, close it, open it again; she nodded encouragingly when he took a breath; her shoulders slumped as he let it out in a sigh. She felt her cheeks start to burn and looked away, bit her lip to keep from crying— _crying_? over _Caleb_?—and noticed that his hands were splayed on the ground, pressing into it so hard the tips of his fingers were white. And then she noticed that under his very nice shirt his chest was heaving, shallow breaths that bumped her fists, and she realized that he hadn't exactly pushed her away, that he wasn't going to be able to explain this away as just a mistake, a trick of the stars splashed across the sky above them, too much sadness and fear and worry and relief bundled in a silly moment of release that they could joke about later.

She heard him try to draw a deeper breath, try to calm himself down, and she looked back to his face and she watched him freeze again, pinned under her gaze, terrified and desperate all at once, and her own breath caught. "Caleb," she said, a thousand questions in the name, tilting her head with concern as she tried to sort through too many changes in too short a time—

"Jester," he breathed, not a surrender but hinting at one and begging her to let him go all at once. And she could; she could smile and laugh it off and joke about him being a terrible kisser, thank him again for his kindness, send him off to sleep; and she could curl up for the rest of the night with too many questions and aches and restless longings and the _sadness_ , and she didn't know which would be worse, his or hers. "I don't think—"

This time she went slowly, leaning forward but keeping most of her weight back so that she wouldn't knock him over. She watched him watch her, felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her hands until she released his shirt and steadied her hands on his shoulders, felt the iron shackles of his self-control as he kept himself from moving. She kept going until their noses bumped and then she stopped. Now she could hear his breath, not just feel it; could smell the fresh nervous sweat atop the days of travel and battle they all wore like perfume; could almost taste—oh, and if there was going to be kissing, there would probably be tasting—the warmth of his skin, all of it weaving in and around the confusing mess of her feelings, knitting them together with a _heat_ she'd only ever read about, didn't realize she could actually _feel_ for another person.

But she stopped at the portcullis and waited for him to open the gate; when he didn't move, she pressed the tip of her nose into his, and she couldn't help giggling a little. Something broke in his expression, his eyebrows lifting, his eyes wincing, his lips pursing together and if she kissed him now—

"Jester," he whispered, as if it took all his strength to produce even so little a sound, "I do not think this is a good idea."

"Why not?" she asked, matching his volume, trying to sound perky, mostly sounding breathy.

"A lot of reasons," he said, and oh, he was _thinking_ (he probably never stopped thinking), "one among them being that I am not actually convinced that you want to do this."

"Caleb," she said, and his breath hitched, his shoulders convulsing under her hands, and she felt a _rush_ , a power like—like casting Hellish Rebuke; not a gift of the Traveler but something all her own, something that came from within, only something she hadn't known she possessed before now and didn't quite know how to wield but _oh_ she thought she'd like to learn, "I'm literally in your lap."  
  
"Yes but that might simply be a mistake," he said, and now he was sitting up so as to take the weight off his hands. This smushed his nose further against hers, as she didn't move, and she giggled again even as his hands came up to hover near her shoulders as if hoping he could push her back without actually having to touch her. "I think perhaps if we both sleep on this—"

"I can't go to sleep," she pointed out. "I'm on watch."

"Then I will take over and you can sleep on it," he said, almost firmly, and on impulse she tilted her head and nuzzled his nose with hers best she could, sort of like she'd seen Frumpkin do, and she felt him— _stutter_ , somehow, with his whole body, felt the rush of power again and now she wanted to climb the rest of the way into his lap and see what _that_ would do. "Please—"

She was sitting back on her haunches before she'd realized she moved, her hands resting on her thighs, and she watched as all the breath left his body and he buried his face in his hands, fingers combing into his hair. _Please_ , he'd said—begged—as if she'd trapped him in an iron maiden and dangled the key in front of his face as the spikes drove into him. And she didn't—no power was worth _that_ —but _why_? "Caleb—" she said, asking again—

He raised his face from his hands and lifted his eyes and met her gaze and she saw—and more to the point she _understood_ —longing, desperate and lonely and despised, and she might have been able to handle that, to—to make a joke about being blue, or something—but he _treasured_ her. He looked at her like he looked at—new parchment, or a spellbook in a shop window, and a little like how he looked at his cat—and even as he looked at her he smiled, heartbroken and impossible, because he— _wanted_ —her (oh, oh that was a lot, oh, _oh_ ) but he— _cared_ —and he thought—and because he cared he thought—and because he cared and because he was sad and tortured and hating himself he thought she'd be better off—

"But," she found herself saying, though the words jumbled themselves as if she'd forgotten how to speak, "but you—you don't—me—you— _her_. You still—you don't—I thought you and she—"

His brow furrowed over the heartbreak in his eyes, his hands still cupped before him as if he wasn't quite willing to let go. "Astrid, you mean," he said slowly, and she nodded, unwilling to even say her name, though she couldn't say why. "I—Jester," he said, and it was if she'd found half the cipher, could suddenly understand so many layers and tones in the way he said her name, "I—the man am I now," he said, slowly and carefully, "would not want the girl I knew all those years ago. And I do not know if the woman she is now would want—me. I…" He sighed, long and hard, and said, "I do not think she would."

"Her loss," she said, surprising herself with the ferocity of her dislike, and his lips half-quirked in a smile, though he still studied her, still perplexed.

"You are…worried about _Astrid_?" he said. "Are you not…" He looked very much as if he would not like to finish his sentence, and finally settled on jerking his head towards the other inhabitants of the dome, oh _gods_ , they were having this conversation with _everyone else RIGHT THERE_ —

"Fjord?" she squeaked, and he winced and she shushed herself. "I—I mean," she nodded very seriously, "yeah sure, I mean totally, yes, you're right, but—"

But Fjord was giggles and bubbles and heartfelt sighs and frustrations and confusing run-arounds and dragging her up trees she didn't even want to climb and he'd _never_ —well, maybe once, maybe twice?—looked at her the way Caleb was looking at her—

and more than that, something like the feeling of a balloon tugging free of its knot and floating up to the sky, _I would not want her_ , as if she'd been spending all her time convincing herself that it had to be nothing because of course there was something else and there _wasn't_ , there wasn't, it was just _herself_ all along—well, there were lots of something elses, something about "murder" that he'd said to Beau, and years of torture and scars on his arms, and the wanting to see lots of specific people very, very dead—but _that_ was all; his heart was _hers_ , broken and scarred and terrified and hurting, and that—look, she was a very good healer, and that meant—if he'd given his heart away to her, that meant—that meant he could take hers in return.

Did she want to give it to him? Did she want to be responsible for his? (Too late, but he'd insist she'd have a choice.)

She looked at him, long and hard, and he looked back at her, some of his earlier panic settling into the familiar sadness, now nervous, now resigned. She looked at her own heart, examined it, found it bruised and bleeding in places but on the whole not too bad; but could she trust him with it? He didn't think so. She wanted him to be wrong.

She wanted _him_ , and the realization sent a rush through her, the crashing down of so many walls she hadn't even known she'd been building, and she grinned at him and watched as his heart broke all over again, as he shook his head and said, "Jester—"

"Caleb," she said, and she reached out and placed a hand against his cheek.

He closed his eyes and _leaned_ , and if she hadn't been sure before she was now of—so many—too many things, and there was that _power_ again and oh, she'd have to be careful with it. "This is a mistake," he said again, though he rubbed his cheek against her hand like a cat, turned his head a little to nuzzle it, his lips brushing her palm. "There are—things you do not—things you must know—"

"Caleb," she said, because she was pretty sure there was nothing he could say to change her mind but wanted to honor that he thought there was, "tomorrow."

The line between his eyebrows deepened, and then he closed his eyes and turned his head enough to press a kiss to her palm and oh, _oh_ , and he murmured, his shoulders slumping with defeat, "Whatever you…want."

She started to lean forward then stopped, frowning. "No," she said, and his eyes opened and he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his face still hidden in her hand, and she realized what she'd said and said, "I mean, _yes_ , but you don't—I mean—only if _you_ want—"

"I want," he said into her hand, the one eye she could see now looking a bit crossed as he stared at her fingers, "many things." She waited, breathing in, breathing out, and in and out again, and again, and as he studied her fingers she realized she'd matched her breath to the rhythm of his as his warm breath blew against her hand. In, and he blinked; out, and he closed his eyes and tilted his forehead into her fingertips and said, "I would be lying if I said you were not one of them."

"Okay," she said, and her voice only wobbled a little because sure, she'd come to that conclusion, but for him to _say_ it was—sure was— _okay_ , "so…"

"So," he said, and then he blew out a long sigh, ended it with another kiss to her palm and she made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a whimper and she saw the edge of his lips curve in a startled smile and _oh_ , she hadn't known—all the books said, of course, but she literally felt like she was going to melt into a pile of goo or possibly pull a Fluffernutter if _something_ didn't happen _soon_. And then he reached up and took her hand and her fingers closed around his hand and held on _tight_ without her really thinking about it. He lowered their hands and she let him because come to think of it her arm was starting to get a little tired and she was aware of so many things that she was losing track of them: the waves of his hair; the small sad fond smile still touching his lips; the way he was _stroking_ her _hand_ with his _fingers_ and how it felt like flames licking up her skin, spreading across every inch of her; her tail dancing like a maniac behind her (and Mama had never said anything about _that_ ); her arm being tired and her heart hammering and her stomach doing flips and also all of her was tired but she was _wide awake_ and he was making her wait and she didn't want to wait but she didn't want—but she _did_ want—

"Caleb," she said, trying to sound gentle and patient and totally calm, probably coming off as petulant and childish—almost certainly the latter, given the way he pressed his lips together as if to ward off another smile.

"Oh, Jester," he said, in that easy, familiar way of his, charmed and mildly exasperated all at once, and he turned his hand until they were palm to palm, and he slid his fingers between hers. "I do not think this is a good idea of yours but," he said, and he finally looked up at her, his free hand reaching for her, "I have been wrong before."

She leaned towards his reaching and before she could regain her balance his hand was pressing on _her_ cheek, hot and a little sweaty against her skin, his other hand also reaching for her as he awkwardly tried to move closer by walking on his knees while she scooted along the ground. They fumbled for each other and just as he managed to get her face in his hands her tail lashed around and snaked behind his back, pulling him closer, and he startled and she giggled and then their eyes met.

"Oh," she breathed as he tilted her chin up, his thumbs brushing her cheeks and his hair falling forward as he came closer, his eyes darting this way and that as he studied her with as much intensity as she'd ever seen him level at a spellbook—and he remembered _everything_ , and he'd remember how she looked, and she hoped she looked okay and she hoped—and she _wanted_ —but she didn't know what to _do_ —

His lips twitched in a smile as he saw her frustration, helpless and amused all at once, and her heart skipped a beat. He felt _fragile_ , even as he was holding her, and she found herself hesitant to touch him, suddenly scared she might break him even as she slowly slipped her hands within the circle of his arms, gingerly touched his face, fingertips lightly resting on his jaw. But all he did was close his eyes and exhale, but this time he _relaxed_ , not defeated, not scared, not hopeless, and something in her chest swelled to bursting and she was going to explode for _real_ this time and without even realizing it she was digging her fingertips into his jaw, dragging him closer.

He huffed a laugh that brushed her face with its warmth and she watched as he tilted his head so that his nose wouldn't bump hers—without looking, and _that_ was impressive, and then his lips were the barest whisper away from hers and she made a noise that she didn't quite realize she knew how to make and she was going to wake somebody _up_ if she kept—

He kissed her.

Lightly, precisely, lips against lips and no more—not at first; just a perfect moment, suspended in time, like the twinkle of a star in the fathomless sky. Like—like staring into the Beacon, except instead of endless possibilities there was only _this_ , the mote she chose, and yet she felt herself equally infinite in possibility herself. No one, not even the Traveler, could know where she'd go from here; but _here_ was all that mattered.

His lips moved a little, testing hers, and her eyes closed immediately, even though she'd kind of wanted to watch his reaction but that turned out to be unnecessary because when she leaned into the kiss _he_ made a _noise_ and the power rushed through her veins like a flash of lightning on a moonless night. And her hands were in his hair before she quite knew how they got there but it felt _wonderful_ , sliding her hands around his head and pulling him closer and tangling his thick hair (a little greasy, maybe, but hers probably wasn't any better and he didn't seem to mind) between her fingers. Her tail stayed wrapped around his back and one of his hands was on her waist somehow and they were kissing a _lot_ ; she couldn't keep count, didn't know how to keep count, gasped for breath around his lips, barely gave him time to breathe as her lips hungered after his. And even when they broke apart he'd nuzzle her cheek or whisper something into her forehead or her nose, meaningless fragments of Zemnian or one of the other languages he knew, and she leaned into the words as his hand caressed her face, her arm, leaned into the wonder and gratitude and half-surprised laughter in his voice as if he couldn't quite believe himself.

She tried to say—something—but only ever ended up gasping or murmuring something approximating his name—she hadn't realized she could do _so much_ with her lips, like, yes, the books had lots of words for kissing (and nibbling and nipping and necking) but they'd failed to tell her about—about the give-and-take, the leaning and the learning, that she could kiss just this or that corner of his mouth, that he could catch her lower lip and teasingly let it go. And they definitely hadn't covered how _hard_ it was to keep track of—everything—one moment trying to contain a slow lingering kiss, holding him to her, the next realizing that she was probably accidentally pulling his hair and should stop but also her lips but also her _tail_ and she was half-kneeling on her feet and her left foot was falling asleep and the books had definitely covered the part where tongues had a role to play but they hadn't even gotten there yet and that there _was_ more, more than even all this, was too overwhelming—

Dimly she realized he'd drawn back, if only because her questing lips failed to find his again. She opened her eyes to see him with his head bowed before her and blinked through the haze of _excuse me, how dare you stop_ to find her hands (one on the back of his neck, stroking his hair, the other one gripping his arm) and his (also gripping her arm, and the other absently stroking her shoulder) and her tail (curving around his waist, toying with the _hem of his pants_ and she stopped it immediately). Her foot was definitely asleep now, and as she shifted to free it she rested her forehead on the crown of his bowed head and in that contact she felt all of the energy and _alive_ ness pour through her and into him, leaving her wanting nothing more than to curl up in his lap and go to sleep.

She yawned against her will and felt his shoulders shake, and when he looked up at her he was laughing. "I am sorry to have bored you," he said, without a trace of any sadness or doubt or— _anything_ , as radiant as the noonday sun on the Lucidian Ocean.

"Oh," she said, stuck somewhere between breathless lungs and heavy eyelids, "well, you know, just a typical…watch…" The look he gave her then was pitying, and she scowled into it. "I am not _that_ tired."

"Of course," he said.

They stared at each other, and she saw a bit of the usual Caleb slip back into his expression, and so she slid her hands down his arms and caught his hands, tangling their fingers together. "So," she said, "Caleb."

"Jester," he said, and he sighed in the saying of it.

"Tomorrow," she reminded him, and he winced and she said, "Don't make that face. It would take a _lot_ to change my mind." He lifted a weary eyebrow and she said, "Look, you're a _really_ good kisser."

"Thank you," he said, but he looked down at their hands, not meeting her gaze. She looked down at them too, wiggled her fingers, started tracing obscene designs on his palms, pretty blue against scarred and calloused white. "You are…" he started, and she realized she'd dropped one of his hands in order to concentrate on tracing an _extremely_ accurate penis on the other. "Unbelievable."

"Well," she said, finishing the design, "you'd better believe in me, 'cause I'm here."

His breath caught, and he closed his hands over her fingers and gave them a squeeze. "Yes," he said, a little wonder in his voice, "you are."

They sat, simply holding hands, and it was…nice. The books didn't really cover what happened after kissing if it didn't lead to… _more_ , and she was surprised at how content she felt to simply sit with him and… _be_.


End file.
